a Fever in the Mind
by Dold Lejon
Summary: Clint has been sick for a few days with a high fever. Natasha calls Bruce to come and take a look at him. Bruce gives him some medication and figures it will help him pull through, but it does not. Bruce returns after Clint's fever seems to get worse.
1. Chapter 1

"Passion is a sort of fever in the mind, which ever leaves us weaker than it found us... It more than anything deprives us of the use of our judgment; for it raises a dust very hard to see through." -William Penn

* * *

He cracked tired eyes, almost certain he had heard someone speak his name. The light in the room invaded his eyes, sending small shocks of pain through his head. His head, which was throbbing, and had been for over a day. He was clammy, feverish, and extremely disoriented.

"Clint."

Peering past the figure of Natasha, Clint attempted to find out the time. Her red curls were blocking the small, digital numbers on his clock, however. He struggled to hoist himself up from his limp mattress, but his whole body ached too much to complete the task. He turned his gaze upon Natasha now.

"Clint, lay back down. You're really sick. I called Dr. Banner here to take a look at you," Natasha explained, placing a small, pale hand on Clint's chest. He only now noticed the figure taking up his doorway. Clint wrinkled his face up, unhappy about Natasha calling a doctor to look at him. Even if it was Banner. Clint begrudgingly let his head fall back against the pillow.

"Fine," Clint breathed, closing his eyes for a moment.

_It was early summer, or late spring. Either one was accurate to describe the season. The weather was moist and warm, and Clint had a particular distaste for this time of year. Maybe it was because Natasha would always stop them on their walks to look at blooming flowers of every colour imaginable. Perhaps it was because Clint could taste the end of their relationship on the tip of his tongue. It was just around the bend, and it seemed as though both of them realized it._

_Natasha and Clint had been dating for a good few months, considering it a decent idea since they were rather close. However, their relationship was quickly seeded with paranoia and trusts issues. During the little time they had together, they were constantly questioning each other and not believing each other. It worked at Clint's nerves much faster than it did Natasha's._

_It wasn't even a rainy or unpleasant day when Clint left the bed especially early, conflicted with the nature of the events the previous night. He hadn't enjoyed it as much as he had hoped he would, but he did love Natasha, didn't he? She followed him from the bedroom, her eyes knowing and concerned at the same time._

"_This isn't working."_

_It was mutual; they admitted to it together, in unison. Clint couldn't help but grin, sheepish. Natasha trailed her hand along his bare shoulder gracefully. She knew they would be better off as friends, instead of trying to force romance into a relationship. They were soul mates, just not in the normal sense of the word._

_There were no bitter feelings after they ended their relationship. There were lingering feelings, sure. Feelings that taunted and teased for weeks, but they were more bittersweet than upsetting._

A cold hand against Clint's forehead caused him to jump, his eye lids shooting open. Bruce's face swam before his eyes, coming into focus in a rather awkward way. Clint squinted against the bright light, glancing over at Natasha. His chest always felt a bit warmer when he saw her face; he missed her, though he would not ever admit it to her. Anyway, it didn't work out, and Clint knew nothing could make it work any better.

"He's had a fever since yesterday, in the morning. He was complaining of a headache," Natasha explained quietly to Bruce. Bruce had a small bag placed down by his feet, a doctor's bag. He reached down and pulled it up, setting it on the edge of Clint's bed. He reached in and pulled out a thermometer. Clint set his jaw firmly. He wasn't keen on getting his temperature checked.

"Open up, please," Bruce said, his voice gentle. Clint groaned, but he accepted the cold instrument into his mouth, maneuvering it under his tongue. It was a few moments before it beeped and Bruce pulled it from Clint's mouth. "You just have a slight temperature, Agent Barton," he said, putting the thermometer back in its case and then dropping it into the bag. Clint glanced over at Natasha, hoping the examination was over.

"I'll leave you to it, Dr. Banner," Natasha said, only noticing Clint's gaze afterward. She gave him an apologetic smile before she turned and left. Clint rolled his eyes and then let his gaze settle on the ceiling, examining the flat surface.

"Well," Bruce said quietly, clasping his hands together. He honestly had no clue what else Natasha expected him to do for Clint other than advise him which painkillers to use for his headache. His eyes scanned the feverish man. His temperature had been one hundred, on the dot. This did worry Bruce slightly, especially if the man had been running a fever for over a day, but he wasn't too certain there was much he could do. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his gaze settling on Clint's face. Clint's eyes darted over to meet his gaze for a split second.

"Hot. Cold. It changes," Clint said quietly. He himself didn't see what else the doctor could do for him that hadn't been done already.

"Have you taken any Tylenol? Aspirin?" Bruce questioned.

"No."

"…Why not?" Bruce asked, honestly curious. Clint looked over at him again, but again the eye contact only lasted about a second.

"Don't know. I haven't really had an appetite," Clint offered up, trying to come up with a reason for the doctor. Other than the fact he just hadn't thought to take anything. This seemed to give Bruce something to work with as he went rummaging through his bag. It wasn't long before he pulled out a small bottle of pills, shaking them in his hand.

"These shouldn't upset your stomach, empty or not. I think you should try them, Agent Barton."

Clint looked over at the bottle, scrutinizing it. He then returned his gaze to the ceiling. "Water," he murmured. Bruce glanced around, and realizing Clint was asking for water, set the bottle down on the table next to Clint's bed. He left the room and returned within a minute with a small cup of water.

"Here. Two should do it," Bruce advised, helping Clint to sit up and handing him the cup. He then grabbed the bottle, shaking two pills out into his hand and giving those to Clint as well. Clint threw them into his mouth and downed the water, setting the cup onto the table afterward.

"Alright. Is that all?" Clint asked. He honestly wanted to sleep more.

Bruce raised his eyebrows slightly, feeling as though Clint was irritated with him. "Uh, yeah, I guess it is. But feel free to call me back if you need anything else," Bruce said, reaching for the bottle of painkillers on the table. He faltered, however, and then drew his hand back all together. "You can take these every twelve hours. Don't take too many," he said, standing up and grabbing his bag. He headed to the door and glanced back at Clint, offering him a friendly yet nervous smile.

Clint was too exhausted to acknowledge the gesture. He remained on his bed, not stirring once for the next sixteen hours.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint found his room was spinning by the time he woke up. He rolled onto his side and groaned loudly. He was suddenly motion sick, and leaned over the edge of his bed after the sensation of having to vomit came over him. A few moments passed on and his stomach calmed slightly. He rolled back onto his back, staring up at his plain ceiling. The corners of his room appeared to be shaking, but upon looking around Clint found it was not the room but his vision which was shaking. He closed his eyes tightly, remaining tangled in his bedding for a few moments longer.

Clint heaved himself up from his bed after kicking off all of his blankets. He felt dirty; his shirt clung to his sweaty back and his hair was sticking up in different directions in the back. Clint leaned down to pull his socks from his feet and reveled in how much cooler he felt once they were removed.

Scanning his room again, Clint noted the bottle of pills on his side table. He grabbed onto the bottle and then headed to his small excuse of a kitchen, setting the bottle on the counter next to his sink. He still felt like the room was spinning, which only caused his stomach to churn again. Clint grasped the edges of his sink, moaning softly and waiting for the feeling to pass. This time the feeling remained, however, and Clint found himself puking into the sink. His knees trembled beneath his shaking body as he leaned closer to the sink. His throat and nose were burning terribly after the last heave. Clint's knees buckled under him and he fell to his kitchen floor, leaning his forehead against the cupboard under his sink. Sweat was beading up on his arms, back, and brow. He turned himself around so he could lean back against the cupboards, and he remained seated on the floor for awhile longer. Before he could help it he was falling back asleep.

* * *

"Clint?"

The voice startled Clint from his sleep and he shot up, cracking his head on the edge of his counter as he did so. He grunted and lashed out, a white spot blocking his vision from the unexpected pain of hitting his head. He found himself weakly pounding against legs clothed in dress pants, slacks.

Clint grabbed onto the counter and heaved himself up, turning around to look at Bruce after. A concerned expression decorated the doctor's face. Clint scowled at him, pushing away his arm when he reached out to touch the bump Clint had forming on his head.

"You need to sit down, Clint. You look terrible," Bruce said, ignoring Clint's attempts to push him away and grasping the man by his shoulders. He steered him over to the small table at the edge of the kitchen and forced him to sit down in one of the small, wooden chairs. Clint groaned as his body hit the chair.

"You look terrible," Clint murmured in protest, leaning over and wrapping his arms around his head. The room seemed to be spinning worse now than it had been before. He felt Bruce's hands on his shoulders, his back, his arms. What was he doing? Normally Clint would have attempted to shake him off again, but he found himself feeling too ill to do so. His body had started to trembling again. "I'm cold," he mumbled softly, figuring maybe Bruce would bring him a blanket.

Bruce glanced around when Clint stated he was cold and finally noticed a small throw draped over Clint's small sofa. Bruce grabbed the blanket and brought it back, draping it over Clint's shoulders. "You really look terrible, Clint. How are you feeling? Any better?"

Clint shook his head, turning it side ways to glance up at Bruce. Bruce sighed. He turned around, inspecting Clint's small kitchen. Somewhere in the back of his mind Bruce wondered how lonely Clint got living here by himself, but he pushed the thought away and went to search for a glass. He noticed the bottle of pills on the counter, and then he also noticed the vomit in the sink.

"Agent Barton, have you been puking?" Bruce asked, figuring he already knew the answer.

"Yeah," Clint groaned. He was suddenly more aware of how hoarse his voice was sounding and how sore his throat was.

Bruce busied himself with washing the vomit away from Clint's sink. He then rummaged through the cupboards until he found a glass. He filled it with cold water and brought it to Clint, setting it down by his head on the table. Clint opened his eyes when he heard the glass hit the table.

"Thanks," Clint said quietly, lifting himself up from the table and reaching for the glass. He brought it to his lips and took a small sip, testing his stomach. He set the glass back down when he was overcome with another wave of nausea.

"No, Agent Barton, you need to drink," Bruce said, reaching for the glass himself and bringing it to Clint's lips. Clint shied away. "I'm not your babysitter, Barton. Drink some water," Bruce said, more firmly this time. Clint still avoided the water. Bruce set the glass down, figuring it wasn't worth getting too frustrated over.

Before Bruce knew what was happening, Clint had toppled the chair over and was back at the sink, puking. It took Bruce a minute to figure out something to do. He moved behind Clint, rubbing at his back softly. There was little he could do for someone who was puking.

Clint was trembling even worse than he had been once he finished puking again. Bruce moved out of his way as he backed away from the sink, observing his expression and anything else that may be helpful. Clint's eyes were extremely blood shot and his face was shining with sweat. Bruce placed a hand on his back again, trying to lead him back toward his bedroom. Clint didn't object or try to resist this time.

"How many times have you puked?" Bruce asked.

"Just… just twice," Clint said weakly. Bruce was growing increasingly concerned.

They pair reached Clint's room slowly. It seemed the only rate Clint could move at was a slow shuffle. Bruce lead him over to his bed and watched him as he lowered his body onto it. His heart went out to the man. He could only imagine the amount of pain he must be in.

"Just try to get some more rest, Agent Barton. I'll stay here, in your living room. If you need anything at all just let me know."

Clint let himself lay back on his bed as Bruce talked. He glanced up at the man, trying and failing to focus on his face. Clint gave him a half-hearted nod before he let his eyes fall closed. He still felt as though the room was spinning, even without having his eyes open. Bruce looked down at the man for a few moments longer before turning and leaving the room. He pulled the door closed behind him, but he didn't shut it tight enough so the handle would latch.

_Clint was standing in the door to Bruce's lab, staring in as Bruce worked on something at a desk. He was stooped over, busily writing on a clipboard. Clint glanced around the lab, trying to recognize any of the equipment, but to no success. He cleared his throat, finally. Bruce straightened up, turning to Clint with a handsome smile on his face. Clint looked away, unable to maintain eye contact._

"_How are you feeling, Agent Barton?" Bruce asked, setting down his work and walking over toward Clint. Clint chewed on his lip._

_Fine. Clint was fine. But when he opened his mouth to speak, he found he couldn't. He turned from the lab, in stead walking down the cold hallway. He turned a corner and ran into Natasha. She looked over him and grabbed his shoulder._

"_No, Clint. You need to see the doctor. It's important."_

_Clint found himself unable to resist Natasha's grasp. She turned him around and lead him back to Bruce, who in turn grabbed Clint's shoulder and brought him into his lab. He brought Clint to a table similar to the one's in doctor's offices. Clint sat down on it. He looked down at himself and found he was wearing nothing but a hospital gown._

"_You don't look so great, Agent Barton," Bruce stated, bringing over some instrument. He placed it against Clint's skin, and Clint could see no real purpose it was serving. However, Bruce seemed to know what he was doing. Clint observed the way the light reflected in the lenses of his glasses. _

"_Clint, I think we should see other people." It was Natasha. Clint looked over to her. Suddenly he was outside, seated on a park bench. Natasha was wearing a yellow dress with white dots. Clint thought she always looked lovely in that dress. He focused on her face, trying to understand why she would want to see other people. It really wasn't working out._

"_Clint, it's important," Natasha said, sitting down to the left of him. Clint tried to put the pieces together, but this wasn't how the actual event took place. His head was spinning in an attempt to get answers. He closed his eyes, and upon opening them, Natasha was gone._

_Clint looked around and jumped upon finding Bruce to his right. He was there, reading the newspaper. He looked up at Clint, smiling at him. He was so handsome._

"_How are you feeling?" Bruce asked Clint. "You look like you've seen a ghost."_

_Clint was puzzled. He felt a trickle of liquid on his face, over his mouth. He glanced down and found it was raining. He looked back over at Bruce and found him unfolding an umbrella._

"_Looks like it's time to head home," Bruce stated, offering Clint his hand. Clint felt the water soaking his face, his chest. It felt like it was pouring from his own mouth, his nose even._

Clint woke with a start. His room was dark. He felt something was wrong, very wrong. He was laying on his side, an arm folded under his head. He moved his arm; it was slick, but with what? Clint sat up. His face was wet. He brought a hand up to his mouth, his nose. Had he puked again, in his sleep? Clint moved to turn on his bed side lamp, but he found himself turned around in his room. He couldn't locate the lamp for a few moments.

Upon switching on the lamp, Clint was met with the sight of red. It smeared his sheets and covered his chest, his finger tips. Clint shivered and his head felt suddenly light. He leaned over the edge of his bed and puked yet again. He opened his eyes to the sight of more red. Was it blood? It couldn't be blood. Clint brought his hand back to his face and wiped at it, looking at his fingers. They were covered in red. It had to be blood.

"Doctor Banner," Clint said, his voice cracking. He couldn't hear anything else in his apartment. "Doctor Banner!" he yelled this time, ignoring his sore throat.

Bruce was at the door in a few seconds. He had the start of a question on his tongue, but it was forgotten the moment he saw Clint and all the blood covering him. He rushed forward, knelling down next to Clint. He wracked his brain for an idea, for any plan of action. What was he supposed to do? Bruce glanced around, feeling a bit dizzy himself. He finally noticed the phone hanging on Clint's wall and went to it, dialing 911.

"I-I need an ambulance."

* * *

**I would just like to write a short thank you to everyone who sent me a message of support regarding my dog. It really helped me out. I hope you all enjoy this chapter. -E.**


	3. Chapter 3

Clint's eye lids fluttered open due to the sensation of something brushing against his forehead. He saw something retreat from his vision as his eyes adjusted to the bright room. Looming over him was Bruce's face. Clint groaned softly, figuring this was another odd dream. Bruce was only this alluring in his dreams. However, as the situation only grew increasingly realistic, Clint figured maybe he wasn't dreaming after all.

"Agent Barton? Are you…" Bruce started talking, but instead just brought his hand back up to press it to Clint's clammy forehead. Clint had been sleeping or out of his sense since the previous night, when Bruce had called the ambulance. Clint had passed out a few minutes afterward, and Bruce had carried him down to meet the paramedics. Bruce had been extremely frightened, and lingering fragments of his fear made themselves known on his face.

"Where am I?" Clint asked, observing Bruce's expression. What was wrong?

"You're at the hospital, Clint. You… well, they uh," Bruce faltered, "You have something called acute gastritis. It simply means the lining of your stomach has become inflamed or irritated. This could be due to a number of things such as an excessive use of aspirin or alcohol, or an infection, or even stress," Bruce explained, looking for a reaction from Clint about any of the topics. Clint, however, was as impossible to read as ever.

Clint tried to process the facts. Judging by Bruce's tone it wasn't going to be too serious, at least Clint hoped so. With another groan he rolled onto his side away from Bruce. He looked out the window, still processing everything. Rain trickled down the window and the sky outside was a water-coloured mess of gray and blue.

It was true Clint had been drinking quite a bit lately. He could remember quite a few nights in the past few months where he had gotten so drunk he had been vomiting, and always all by himself. He refused to get drunk with company. He continued to scrutinize the poor weather as he thought about whether or not his drinking had been enough to cause this stomach problem. He heard Bruce stir behind him.

"Agent Barton, do you have something you need to talk to me about?" Bruce asked, placing a hand on Clint's arm nearest him.

Clint rushed his thinking now, trying to come to some conclusion. Sure, his stomach had been quite upset lately, but he never thought it was because he drank too much. He didn't think of himself as an alcoholic at all.

"You did have quite the fever, so I personally would say it's due to some infection, unless you disagree," Bruce added, the end of his sentence hanging like a question. He watched as Clint rolled even further away from him. The sun was setting slowly behind the mess of clouds outside.

"Nothing I can think of, doc," Clint stated. He resolved in that instant to quit drinking. He didn't have a problem, but he sure as hell didn't want to develop one.

"Well… I guess you should just try and get some more sleep, then. The doctors have told me they'll be treating you with antibiotics. They say you should also avoid spicy foods, but I highly doubt that'll be a problem while you're in here," Bruce explained. He turned toward the door and pulled his jacket from a hook. He turned around to flash a grin at Clint, even if he was still turned away. "I'll be back tomorrow."

* * *

Clint woke up the next morning to a nurse rummaging around in his room. He sat up groggily and winced as he nearly pulled out an I.V. he hadn't noticed previously. The tubing was a bit knotted, and this seemed to be what the nurse was working at fixing.

"You're awake," the nurse chirped, her voice cheery.

Clint did his best to find his voice, but once he cleared his throat he found he had nothing to say. He was extremely drowsy, and suddenly suspicious of what they were injecting into him.

"I'll have them bring in your breakfast shortly," the nurse said, turning from the now untangle tubing. Clint wrinkled up his nose and let himself sink back down against the pillow. The last thing he was in the mood for was food, especially hospital food.

A tray was brought in for Clint about a half an hour later. The nurse found him staring up at the muted television with a very blank expression. She placed the tray on the small over-bed table and swiveled it so it was over his lap. Clint glanced at her as she left and then stared down at the tray of food. Something that looked like oatmeal, a glass of apple juice, some pudding. Nothing too offensive, he figured. He picked up the spoon next to his tray and started to work on the bland oatmeal.

A soft knock on the door frame to his room caused Clint to look over. There was Natasha, looking radiant in a pair of blue jeans and a green sweater. Clint glanced back down at his food. Why was he not excited she was here? He ignored his reaction to her being here and continued to shovel oatmeal into his mouth.

"Hey, Clint," Natasha said, grinning as she walked over. She had on a pair of black high heels that clacked as she crossed the room. Clint closed his eyes once she was by his side. "Are you feeling okay?" Natasha asked, bringing her hand over to stroke Clint's cheek.

Clint did his best not to scowl at her touch. She was making this hard for him. "No, I'm just tired," he said as an excuse for his foul mood. Natasha grinned at him, her face as bright as the sun.

"That's alright. I couldn't expect anything else, really. Bruce said you were pretty rough the other night," Natasha rambled, or at least it sounded like rambling to Clint. His head was starting to pound.

"It's nice of you to visit," Clint stated half heartedly. He reached for his glass of juice and took a sip. His stomach was starting to act up. He could feel it churning and wondered why they would give a patient who had been puking so much any sort of food. With a grimace he rolled onto his side and reached for the emesis basin next to his bed. He gagged for a moment before he actually puked, and he could hear Natasha gasp behind him.

Natasha turned and went to the hall way, waving a nurse inside. The two women busied themselves with Clint. Natasha rubbed at his back as the nurse checked all the machinery.

"Looks like the food wasn't the best idea for you, Mister Barton," the nurse chirped.

Clint glowered at the nurse, feeling as if she was being sarcastic. Natasha flicked his head, noticing the look even though the nurse didn't. A few minutes passed by and Clint refrained from puking any more. The nurse took the emesis basin from him and went to wash it while he turned to look at Natasha.

"You should just go home, Tasha," Clint murmured, looking down and inspecting the pattern of the hospital gown draped over his chest.

"Are you sure?" Natasha asked, his big eyes concerned.

"Yeah. I won't be any fun like this. I'm tired, anyhow," Clint said, closing his eyes to emphasize his point.

"Alright. I guess you're right," Natasha said softly. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Clint's forehead. Clint wrinkled his brow. The kiss lingered against his skin even after Natasha had pulled away and headed toward the door. "I'll come again tomorrow, or Wednesday. I hope you feel better," she said before exiting the room. Clint was left alone with the soft hum of machinery around him.

* * *

Clint woke a few hours later to find Bruce seated in the chair at the foot of his bed, reading the newspaper over the edge of his glasses. Clint took a few moments to admire how charming Bruce could look. Clint found himself staring, and when Bruce looked up he barely had the instinct to break eye contact.

"Feeling alright, Agent Barton?" Bruce asked, the corners of his lips curling into a smile.

Clint avoided saying anything and let his eye lids fall closed again for a moment or two. His cheeks were tingling with a blush. He could hear Bruce fold up the newspaper and set it down. Clint finally made a noise, exhaling loudly. He heard Bruce chuckle softly.

"That bad, huh?" Bruce asked, standing and moving toward Clint. He looked around at a few of the machines, and then walked around to the other side of the bed to read the label on the I.V. bag. Clint opened his eyes and looked to see what Bruce was looking at.

"They're poisoning me, right?" Clint asked, smiling half heartedly and blowing air out his nose in a sort of laugh.

"No, sadly. They just have you hooked up to some antibiotics, which is a good thing, I would say. I heard you couldn't keep your breakfast," Bruce said, looking down at Clint and smiling.

Clint scowled and let his head fall back against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling. Somewhere in the back of his mind his brain was attempting to figure out why he was more content with Bruce being here than Natasha.

"How long have you been here?" Clint asked.

"A few hours. You were out cold," Bruce said, withholding the information he knew about the additional medicine they were giving Clint to keep him tired. Bruce had heard from Natasha how restless Clint could get. "I actually need to go and meet with Tony shortly," Bruce added, glancing down at his watch to check the time. Very shortly. He had hoped to have a chance to speak with Clint, but it would have to wait.

"Science stuff?" Clint questioned, glancing up at Bruce. Bruce was puzzled before he realized what Clint was asking.

"Yeah, science stuff. Tony never has a better reason to see me," Bruce said with a chuckle. He placed his hand on Clint's shoulder and squeezed before turning toward the door. "You want me to stop back in later?" he asked, turning to give Clint a curious look.

"Yeah," Clint said, "Yeah, I'd like that."

Bruce smiled once more before disappearing around the corner. When he returned around five hours later the sun was setting and Clint was fast asleep. Bruce took this time to admire the man in silence before being chased off by one of the nurses ranting about how visiting hours were over unless you were family. Bruce found himself turning around once he was outside to glance up at the many windows, wondering if he could see Clint's from here. A small smile lingered on his lips. He'd visit Clint again tomorrow. Hopefully the poor man would be discharged soon enough. There was no doubt he was growing restless.


	4. Chapter 4

The wind howled through the buildings of the busy city, relentless and cold. Even so, Clint found himself outside in this cold. His bare feet were dangling off the edge of the hospital's roof. He looked down, taking in the sight of the small people bustling about below and the taxis and other various vehicles moving through the streets. The traffic was stop and go, and Clint was actually glad he had nowhere to be at the moment. Even if he was restless.

About an hour earlier he had slipped past the nurses and doctors, finding himself in a back stairwell in nothing but his hospital gown. He had been tempted at first to go down the stairs, but upon seeing a sign that said there was roof access he changed his mind. He hurried up the stairs, taking them as quickly as he could manage. He was still drowsy from whatever medication they had been giving him. He still managed to make it to the roof, though. He was also managing to not tumble off the edge of the roof, as well, a feat he was proud of in his state.

The weather wasn't too cold to cause Clint to be extremely uncomfortable, and perhaps that is the only factor that allowed him to remain on the roof as long as he had so far.

* * *

"Agent Romanoff?"

"Yes?"

"I… uh. Well, I got a call from the hospital. Uh, it appears Agent Barton has escaped his room…"

"Is that so?" There was a stifled chuckle from Natasha's end of the line.

"Look, do you know where I might find him?" A sigh escaped Bruce's mouth. He didn't view the situation as lightly as Natasha did.

"Well, I'd say he just booked it. He probably got up and left."

"Thanks. I'll just go look for him," Bruce said, hanging up the phone before Natasha could say anything more. He doubted she understood how hard it would be for a patient in Clint's condition to sneak out of hospital, especially a hospital that was in the direct center of the city. It would be an odd sight to see a man walking down the street in nothing but a hospital gown. Bruce tried to think, and finally decided to just head over to the hospital.

Upon arriving, Bruce glanced around. He observed the entrance, and then noticed the floor plan on the wall. Was there anywhere Clint might have gone to? Perhaps the cafeteria? A boiler room? Bruce doubted those types of rooms would be listed. He sighed, turning and heading up to Clint's empty hospital room. He was greeted by a shaken up nurse.

"Have you found him?"

"N-no." The nurse said. She was nearly hysterical. "I-I don't know how I managed to let him get out like that," the nurse whimpered before hurrying out of the room.

Bruce stared after her, figuring her higher-ups were simply angry with her. He then left the room, glancing around. Where would Clint be? Bruce took a left and nearly overlooked a sign pointing to a stairwell. An idea of where Clint might be bloomed in his mind. Bruce turned down the small hallway and entered the stairwell. He headed up the stairs even quicker than Clint had a few hours earlier. Upon opening the door to the roof at the top, Bruce found himself relieved. There was Clint, just sitting on the edge of the roof. Sure, the safety of the area he had chosen to sit made Bruce a bit uneasy, but he knew Clint was sure footed. He also knew Clint would prefer to have a vantage point, and this was how he came to the conclusion Clint must be on the roof. Bruce made his way toward Clint.

"Agent Barton," Bruce said, standing behind the mostly nude man. Clint turned around, staring up at Bruce with an brief expression of disbelief on his face. "Yeah, I found you. Game's over."

"If you think I'm going back down to that room, you've got to be crazy," Clint stated with a huff before turning and staring back over the city skyline. It was still dreary out, but at least it hadn't started to rain today. The clouds were flat and various shades of gray, growing darker in the west. Clint closed his eyes as a rather cold breeze whistled past him.

Bruce watched as the wind went through Clint's short hair, tousling it ever so slightly. He also observed the way Clint stiffened, and then shivered. Bruce looked down over himself. He was wearing a jacket, and Clint was barely dressed. Bruce quickly stripped out of his coat and moved forward, draping it over Clint's shoulders. Clint tensed, but he didn't open his eyes. Bruce lowered himself to sit next to Clint, letting his own legs dangle over the edge of the roof after warily peering over the edge.

"You know, I really like days like this. I guess it might be weird, but personally I find them peaceful. On days like this all people want to do is be inside, away from other people. Or at least somewhere warm," Bruce rambled on, trying to make Clint feel a bit more at ease. Clint remained silent with his eyes closed. The situation remained as such for minutes, and then even more minutes. Bruce found himself lost, staring at the busy city life below.

"You know, I like the other guy."

Bruce barely noticed Clint had said anything, and when he realized the man had spoken, he figured he had heard him wrong. He was unsure of what to say, especially when Clint opened his eyes and turned to look at him. Bruce could feel goose bumps form on his back.

"Well, who else do you like? Agent Romanoff?"

Clint's gaze dropped from Bruce's and he turned away again. Bruce felt his gut churn in protest. He should have said something else.

"I did. Hell, I think I still do some times, but I know she doesn't want that," Clint said after a few moments of tense silence. "But," Clint said, trying to lessen the tension, "I really do like the other guy. I mean, you shouldn't be as ashamed as you seem to be."

Bruce stared at Clint, not sure how to react; he wasn't even sure if he should believe it. "Why?" he finally asked, his own voice a quiet whisper against the wind.

"Why not?" Clint asked, looking back at Bruce. "He's never done anything to me. He even has his own nickname for me, 'Cupid'," he added, working up a small smile.

Bruce continued to stare, not sure what he should say. His heart hammered inside his chest. He was afraid he was starting to like Clint a bit too much, and even more afraid he would betray his feelings if he said anything.

"Cupid, huh? Well, you are mostly naked. Kinda like a little cherub, except you should be in a diaper, not a hospital gown." Bruce finally said, smiling afterward. He did his best not to glance over Clint's mostly naked body. It helped that his coat was covering him a little bit.

"Hey, _I _think I'm adorable," Clint laughed, finally feeling a little more at ease.

"Whatever makes you happy, Agent Barton," Bruce responded, turning to look out at the city again. It was breathtaking, being on top of the hospital with such a great view. Upon looking back at Clint, Bruce could tell there was something he wanted to say. His brow was furrowed slightly, and his lips were barely parted. "What is it?" Bruce asked.

"Clint… you can call me Clint."

Bruce's heart was hammering again, and he had to force himself to look away from Clint's face. So they were on a first name basis now? Bruce couldn't protest to that.

"Well, the same to you. You can call me Bruce."

"Alright Bruce," Clint said, smiling. He glanced over Bruce quickly, noting he was a little flushed in the cheeks. But then again, it was cold out. Clint looked down at his hands resting on his bare legs. The silence got tense again, and Clint wasn't sure how to break it this time.

"How long were you and Agent Romanoff together?"

Clint looked up, shocked by the question. After recovering from the shock, he looked back down at his lap. "Just a few months. Seven, I think. At the most," Clint mumbled, turning his face away from Bruce completely. It was a sore subject for him.

"What happened?" Bruce pressed on.

"Nothing happened."

Bruce could sense the tension in Clint's voice; he could hear the slight waver in his tone that meant he should back off with the questions. "I'm sorry," Bruce said softly.

"Me too," Clint replied, nearly snapping it out. He felt bad immediately after. It wasn't as though Bruce was trying to upset Clint. Clint looked back at Bruce, the very rims of his eyes turning pink. "Do you like her?"

Bruce was taken by surprise, and it was evident on his face. "Me?" he asked. "Oh no, not at all. No."

Clint smirked and blew air out through his nose in a little laugh. "I see," he huffed, his shoulders quivering with a giggled. "You know cooties aren't real, right?" he asked, mockingly.

All Bruce could do in return is smile because Clint was smiling. He then glanced over Clint's body again, noting how red his knees and knuckles were. He was tempted to reach his hand over and grab Clint's, but he held back.

"We really should go inside, Ag-" Bruce stopped himself, "Clint. It's getting colder up here, and you're barely dressed."

Clint seemed to be pondering what Bruce said. "You think so, huh?" he finally asked, biting down on his lip.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Well, you _are _the doctor," Clint said, offering a dry smile.

"I am," Bruce said, mostly to fill the silence. He could read the restlessness on Clint's face as if it were a book. His heart reached out to the man, in a similar way one's heart reaches out to a lion in a zoo on a hot summer's day. All Bruce could hope for was that Clint be discharged soon.

"Well, let's go, then," Clint said, heaving himself up from the ledge. Bruce's arms reached out for Clint as he swayed, but he regained his balance a moment later and was already stepping away from the edge of the roof. Bruce was slower to get himself standing, but once he had done so he followed behind Clint closely.

The descent to the floor Clint's room was on was quiet, but at least it wasn't tense. Upon entering the room a few nurses bustled in after the pair, yelling and talking excitedly, and even scolding Clint as if he were a small child who had run off. Bruce watched as a nurse stripped Clint of his jacket. He had liked seeing it draped on Clint's shoulders. Bruce blushed as he realized this, and turned to head into the hallway. He turned back to give a small wave to Clint.

"I hope you get out of here soon, Clint. I'm busy the next few days, but I'll see you around."

Clint caught a glimpse of Bruce before he vanished from the doorway, and suddenly he felt utterly alone.


	5. Chapter 5

Walking through the city had never felt so good. The air seemed crisper, fresher, than ever before, and the sun was actually out for the first day in weeks. There was still a bit of a chilly breeze managing to get in between the buildings, but with Bruce's jacket on, Clint felt fine.

Clint had just been discharged, and in perfect time. He was ready to run off again, this time for good. He was still a quite a bit woozy from all the medicines and the fact his sickness had been directly related to his stomach, but he was simply ecstatic to be out of that cramped hospital room.

Clint pulled Bruce's jacket tighter about himself as a rather cold breeze whistled by. He caught a faint smell of something on the jacket as he did so, and couldn't help but bring the jacket closer to his nose and smell it. What was the smell? Clint's fingers tightened around the jacket as he realized he was reveling in the smell of Bruce; it might have been his aftershave, cologne, shampoo, anything. But Clint was certain it was Bruce he was smelling. He mentally shamed himself for his sudden interest in the jacket and then continued on his way, ignoring the smell of the jacket. The smell of Bruce.

Coming upon a very busy intersection, Clint waved down a taxi. He had his wallet and anything he really needed, but he wasn't in the mood to go back to his lonely apartment just yet.

As a taxi pulled up, Clint crawled into the back seat. He pulled the door shut firmly and then buckled himself in, giving the driver and address he used to know by heart, but now he found he had trouble recalling it. The drive wasn't relatively long, but it beat having to walk any further in the chilly city. Clint's nose and cheeks were flushed red from the chill outside as he exited the taxi, handing the driver a few bills and telling him to "keep the change".

Clint found himself staring up at a rather tall, wealthy apartment complex. He headed to the door and squeezed in past a woman who was carrying a bag of groceries. Maybe he could surprise Natasha now that he didn't have to page her from the door. Clint smiled slightly to himself, heading to the stairwell and taking the stairs two at a time. This only lasted for a few moments, however, before Clint found himself too fatigued to continue doing so. He walked normally the rest of the way to the fourth floor.

Suddenly Clint doubted he should be doing this. His pace slowed down dramatically as he finally approached Natasha's apartment door. The three numbers hung there, suddenly menacing and cold. Clint felt a lump form in his throat, and was about to turn to leave, but changed his mind and knocked on the door suddenly. He took a step back, the lump in his throat still there. Why was it Natasha was the only one who could do this to him?

There was some shuffling behind the door before it was finally pulled open. Clint's eyes widened slightly as he took in Natasha's tousled hair and rosy cheeks.

"Were you sleeping…" the question died on Clint's lips as Natasha pulled the door open a bit wider, revealing a stunningly attractive brunette man behind her. "I guess not," Clint muttered under his breath, averting his gaze from both the man and Natasha.

"I'm sorry, Clint. You caught me at a bad time," Natasha said, offering a smile to Clint. She knew it probably meant nothing to him now; she knew he had been struggling to get over her. "I'm sorry," she whispered again, quieter.

"No, I can see this is a bad time. I'll just catch you later, Nat," Clint said, turning quickly and making his way back toward the stairwell.

Natasha faltered in the doorway, torn between going after Clint and staying here. She finally stepped back into her apartment, closing the door and locking it behind her. She had moved on, now it was Clint's turn.

* * *

Clint was overwhelmed by a range of emotions as he wandered back into the busy crowd of people bustling through the city's streets. He was feeling angry, hurt, and a number of other emotions he couldn't quite place. He also couldn't tell if the nausea was from his discovery of Natasha's beau or because he was still getting over the nauseous feelings from being in the hospital. He furrowed his brow as he continued on, cramming his hands into the pockets of Bruce's coat.

After a number of aimless turns through the winding city streets, Clint found himself ambling along the edge of an inner city park. The leaves of the trees swayed with the breeze. Clint looked around, inspecting the various picnic tables and benches. There weren't very many people out and about, and so Clint turned into the park and headed toward a lone bench under the shade of a tall oak with leaves that were starting to change colour. The leaves rattled restlessly above Clint's head as he tucked himself deeper into Bruce's jacket.

Clint remained seated on the bench until his knuckles and nose were red with cold. He finally decided to fumble around in his pockets for his phone, however, he unsure of who he would call when he did so. He ran his thumb over the buttons on the front, continuing to contemplate on who to call. Why did he even want to call someone? Was it because he was lonely? With this thought settling inside Clint's gut, Clint dialed a number he only recently learned.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

"Hello?" the voice who answered sounded slightly breathless.

Clint faltered a moment before speaking.

"B-Bruce?" he finally stammered out. He hadn't even realized he was shivering.

"Ag-" Bruce faltered himself, "Clint? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I uh, I… just…" Clint wasn't even sure what he was doing.

"You…?"

Clint felt around his pockets with his free hand, trying to come up with something. He noted a factor that gave him an excuse.

"I'm locked out. I guess I never grabbed my apartment key. Not that I could have," Clint mumbled, losing confidence. He hadn't felt his key in his pockets, so this may as well be true.

"Would you like me to come and get you? Are you at your apartment?"

"Ah, no. I'm… I'm at a park… it's by," Clint glanced around, looking for something to give Bruce a sense of where he was, "It's right across the street from that Thai restaurant Stark really likes."

"I know the place. I'll be right there, Clint. Just hold tight."

Clint lowered the phone from his ear as he heard the line click on the other end. He really had no idea what he expected from Bruce, but he returned his phone to his pocket and waited patiently anyway.

It wasn't too long after Clint had called Bruce that he heard his name being called from near the street. He turned and saw Bruce leaning out of a taxi that was pulled over on the side of the road. Clint stood and hurried over, feeling like his nose might fall off from the cold at any second.

"Bruce, hey," Clint breathed softly as he scooted into the taxi next to the doctor.

"Hello, Clint," Bruce said softly. He took in the sight of him. His cheeks were bright red from the cold, and he was wearing Bruce's jacket. This fact caused Bruce's insides to heat up and dance around. He pulled his gaze from Clint, trying to convince himself it was only coincidence. It wasn't as though Clint had anything else to wear. He had only had on a t-shirt and jeans when he was taken off in the ambulance.

"Where to?" The taxi driver interrupted Bruce's thoughts.

"Uh, just back to where we came from," Bruce said, somewhat uncertain. "I hope you're alright with that," he added, turning to Clint. "I figured maybe we could just go and warm up at my place," he finished, his expression somewhat hopeful.

"That sounds fine," Clint murmured, blowing warm air in between his hands and rubbing them on his thighs. Outside a sheet of clouds had taken over the sky, taking with them the sun and the warmth it had provided.

* * *

"Well, here we are."

Clint lingered behind Bruce for a moment as he unlocked the door to his townhouse. It had a brick front and looked nice and cozy, especially because Clint was certain it would be warm inside.

Bruce ushered Clint in past him and then closed the door behind him. It was a small town house, but it was still nice, and still home. Bruce had put a small lab into the basement for experiments. He found he rarely needed to leave his home as of late, but he had been out much more since Natasha asked him to take care of Clint. Bruce smiled as he watched Clint take in his home. No one ever expected Bruce to live in such a small townhouse.

"It's… nice, unexpected, honestly," Clint mumbled, stepping further into the home. To the right of them was a small staircase that lead up to a loft area. They were currently in the small living room, and further inside was the kitchen and dining area. Clint marveled at how nice the home was. He nearly stumbled over Bruce's coffee table while trying to take it all in. One thing he noticed right away was how nice it smelled. It smelled just like the coat, just like Bruce.

"Please, sit down," Bruce said once Clint had turned his attention back to him. He motioned to his sofa and watched as Clint tentatively lowered himself onto it. "Would you like anything, Clint? Soup, tea, hot chocolate? Anything?"

Clint looked up, inspecting Bruce momentarily as he pondered the offer. "Hot chocolate sounds good," he rasped softly, his voice suddenly caught in his throat.

"Well, I'll get right on that," Bruce said, heading into his kitchen.

Clint watched him until his disappeared around the corner. The banging of pots and pans brought a smile to Clint's face. It was nice to be in a place that was actually lived in. It felt so different than his own apartment.

Looking down at his feet, Clint kicked off his shoes. He brought his legs up onto the sofa and swung them around, laying down the length of the cushioned piece of furniture. It was really comfortable, and it smelt so nice. Clint turned his face to the side and inhaled, catching a nice strong whiff of Bruce on the pillow under his head. Clint felt slightly guilty, but he could still hear Bruce making noise in the kitchen and that eased his fear of being found out. But found out for what?

It wasn't too much later when Bruce came back over with a mug of hot chocolate in hand. He was shocked to find Clint sprawled across the sofa, dead asleep. But then again, hospital beds couldn't be very comfortable to sleep in, could they? Bruce smiled as he placed the mug down on the coffee table. He pulled a blanket from his armchair and draped it over Clint's frame, looking the man over affectionately. He even dared to reach down and run his fingers softly over Clint's brow and down the side of his face, caressing his cheek.

Turning, Bruce went to sit in the arm chair and picked up a novel bound in a rich green colour. He figured it would be best to let Clint sleep, no matter how long he needed to sleep for. And so Bruce did his best to focus on his novel, but he did find himself staring at Clint's sleeping form over half the time he tried to spend reading. When the townhouse grew dark as the sun set behind the curtain of clouds outside, Bruce decided to move to his bedroom. Clint could stay the night. Everything would be fine.

Bruce returned to the living room a minute later with another blanket. What kind of host would he be if he let Clint grow cold? With another smile Bruce draped this blanket over Clint's body as well, tucking it under the man's side. He let himself marvel at Clint's visage for a few moments longer, but then he begrudgingly turned off the lamp on the side table and made his way back into his bedroom.

Bruce fell asleep at ease knowing Clint was only a room away.


	6. Chapter 6

Rain hammered into windows as wind howled between houses, down alleyways, and under vehicles. Blurred headlights dotted the streets and cast beams of lights through curtained windows and down roads slick with rain. Lightning light up the very edges of the city as the storm moved closer toward the center of the metropolis. The storm was in full swing as a loud crack of thunder penetrated Clint's dream.

What most understood was thunder Clint mistook for gunfire. He was in a fit, tangled in the blankets Bruce had draped over him hours before. With a loud thump his body hit the floor and he was screaming, thrashing about in the blankets. His fists met the feet of the sofa and the legs of the coffee table. He managed to break the glass surface of the coffee table with another defensive blow. Shards of glass shattered to the ground as Clint continued to struggle, unable to wake from his dream.

Another crack of thunder woke Bruce in his own room. He thought for a moment maybe he had heard something else, but he was too exhausted to pay any mind to it. Until he heard Clint's stifled cry. In a second Bruce had processed the events of the day, remembering Clint had fallen asleep on his sofa. He kicked the blankets off of himself and charged into the hallway, his feet thundering against the floor as he made his way to the living room.

With his heart hammering Bruce observed the fitful Clint. He dropped to his knees and grasped Clint's head, trying to hold him still.

"Clint. Clint!" Bruce moved his hands to Clint's shoulder, shaking him.

Clint's eyes shot open as a gasp for air came from his mouth. He ripped himself from Bruce's grasp and whirled away from him. His hands and knees met the broken glass on the floor and he swore. Bruce moved forward, wrapping an arm tightly about Clint's chest and attempting to hold him tight. Clint struggled against the grasp and lashed out, sending small specks of blood flying from his injured hands.

"Come on Clint, breathe. It was only a nightmare. Come on, it's alright," Bruce murmured against Clint's head, holding him more securely. Slowly Clint settled down, his chest heaving and his heart pounding in his ears and chest.

"W-where… where is-"

"Shh. You're at my place, Clint. Remember, I picked you up from the park. You were discharged. It's me, Bruce," Bruce explained, trying to console Clint. "Breathe," he whispered, running his free hand through Clint's hair.

Clint's face reflected his attempt to process everything. He was having a hard time picking out what had been in his dream and what had been real this past day. He finally decided that Bruce was safe; the Hulk was safe. Yet he could still see the tanks, hear the echo of the Hulk's angered roar and the boom of the cannons fired at him.

"It was just a dream," Clint stated softly. He said this more to reassure himself than to admit it to Bruce. "You're alright."

"Yeah, you're alright, Clint," Bruce said softly. His grip on Clint lessened and he moved to take Clint's injured hand in his own. He started to inspect the severity of the cut when another loud rumble of thunder shook the house. Clint trembled for a moment in Bruce's arms. "Shh, shh," Bruce murmured, curling his fingers around Clint's to close his hand.

Bruce remained holding Clint as the storm rolled on. Slowly the thunder grew distant and the lightning no longer lit up the room as brightly. Bruce didn't mind storms himself, and so he took in the patter of the rain against the windows. He hadn't even realized Clint had fallen back asleep for a short while after it had happened. Looking down at Clint, Bruce found the man's eyes closed and his head had tilted to the side. Bruce smiled to himself, taking in the view of Clint for a moment before shifting, wrapping his arms securely around Clint's body.

With some maneuvering, Bruce managed to get Clint's whole body into his arms. He slowly stood, his knees trembling slightly with the effort. After standing up completely, Bruce stopped, staring down at Clint to see if he had been woken up by the movement. To Bruce's surprise, the man remained asleep.

Bruce slowly turned, not sure where all the broken glass was and not wanting to hurt himself. He slowly shuffled past his sofa and armchair. He held Clint a bit tighter as he made his way down the hallway and into his own bedroom. His stomach churned at the thought of Clint sleeping in his bed. He hurried over to it, not wanting to drop Clint. Bruce was not used to carrying people around.

Lowering Clint onto his bed, Bruce felt another tremor of excitement rush through his body. He was mentally scolding himself for escalating the situation in his mind as he backed away from Clint. He noticed the blood on his hand and wondered why he hadn't tended to the cut earlier. Both dried and fresh blood coated Clint's hand when Bruce inspected it more thoroughly. He squeezed at the cut softly, but let it be when he saw Clint's head stir and his brow furrow. Instead Bruce grabbed some bandages from his nightstand drawer and wrapped them securely around Clint's injury, hoping this would be enough and Clint wouldn't need stitches.

Bruce could feel his own exhaustion kicking in, and so he turned off the lights in his room and moved to the opposite side of the bed that Clint was sleeping on. He did his best to cover Clint with blankets, and then crawled under them himself. It took all over his will power to not roll over and wrap his arms around Clint, to pull him tight and press soft butterfly kisses to his skin. Instead Bruce imagined doing so, and he found it helped him keep his desires stifled. In minutes he was asleep.

* * *

Clint was the first of the two to wake up. Upon doing so, he found himself nearly face to face with Bruce. His heart kick started. He sat up straight and glanced around the room quickly, unsure of where he was. Hadn't he fallen asleep on Bruce's sofa? He inspected himself, noting the bandages on his hand. It came back to him through a cloud. He remembered the thunder, and the fear, and the broken glass. A small ball of guilt welled in his stomach when he realized he had broken Bruce's coffee table.

"Clint?"

Clint jumped at Bruce's voice, completely lost in thought about the previous night. He turned, looking down at the groggy Bruce Banner. His heart was racing again. A smile spread over Bruce's lips as he pushed himself into a sitting position.

"How are you feeling?"

"Am I in your bedroom?" Clint asked, ignoring the question Bruce had asked. A somewhat guilty expression made itself known in Bruce's eyes and on the corners of his mouth.

"Uh, yeah," Bruce said, rubbing at the back of his head and breaking eye contact with Clint, "yeah, I was worried you might have another fit, and so I carried you in here. I hope you don't mind."

Clint remained silent as he observed how sheepish Bruce was being. All in an instant Clint felt completely overwhelmed by a realization; he had been stricken with an epiphany of sorts. His eyes roamed the room nervously as he tried to talk himself out of what he had realized. There was no way; he still loved Natasha, didn't he. Plus, he had never been interested in a man before, had he? Not that he could recall. Even as Clint tried to convince himself what he realized was wrong, he felt himself losing the argument. He was falling for Bruce Banner.

Clint had kicked off the blankets and was out of the bed in an instant. Bruce's eyes focused back on him, surprised by the sudden movement. "W-where are you going? Bruce asked as he watched Clint head toward the door.

"I… I have some other things I need to get done today. I'm really sorry about your coffee table," Clint paused in the door way, but he didn't turn around to look at Bruce, "I'll see you around."

Bruce watched as Clint's form disappeared from view. He got out of the bed himself, hurrying toward the hallway. "Are you sure you don't want to stay for breakfast…" Bruce's question died on his lips as he heard his door slam shut. He entered his living room and found himself staring at the shattered glass on his floor and wondering if he had done something wrong.

* * *

By the time Clint had reached his apartment, he realized he had forgotten his cell phone at Bruce's townhouse. He was mentally kicking himself as he made his way up the stairs to the door of his apartment. He unlocked the door and went in, feeling frustrated, lonely, and for some odd reason, slightly aroused.

Locking the door behind him, Clint wondered what he would do. He was startled from his thoughts as his land line starting ringing. He walked over to the receiver, wondering who would be calling. His stomach knotted up when he saw it was Bruce. He ignored the call, turning and heading toward his bathroom. He felt stifled by a gray melancholy. It seemed to spread through his apartment, filling all the corners and crevices. His apartment seemed so bare and cold compared to Bruce's townhouse.

Clint started to strip himself as he entered the bathroom, figuring a nice shower would help him relax. He stumbled out of his pants and suddenly found himself naked, and so he climbed into his shower, turning it on hot enough fro steam to collect on the mirrors and glass. He let the water run over his body, relaxing his muscles and calming his mind slightly. A soft, nagging tension still pestered his thoughts, however, and soon his mind had taken a course of it's own.

_Bruce's hands ran down Clint's back, working out knots and teasing the skin_.

Clint found himself shuddering at the thought. He fought it, tried to think of something else, but finally he gave in to his mind.

_Strong hands caressed Clint, running down his sides and pausing, gingerly resting on his hips. He shivered again, leaning back into Bruce's touch. It was stronger, surer. _

Stronger than what? Clint huffed. Stronger than Natasha, he admitted. He tried to push her from his mind.

_Bruce's hands ran lower. _

Clint shuddered, gasped.

_Lower. _

Clint bit his lip, a throb coming from his groin.

_Bruce knew what Clint wanted, and he wouldn't hold out on the man. His hands wrapped around to Clint's front, grabbing hold of the man's erection. Slowly Bruce's hands pumped, teased, and all in all, made Clint whine and tremble. Soft kisses pressed to Clint's back, his neck, the side of his face. _

Clint groaned. He could practically feel Bruce pressed up behind him.

"_C'mon, Clint. You can do it," Bruce murmured against Clint's neck, nipping at the warm skin. His hand pumped faster, harder. He had Clint on the edge. "I want you to, Clint," Bruce mumbled. _

Clint whined as he reached his climax. His knees buckled and he slammed down, water pouring over his head. His shoulders and legs trembled as he caught his breath. A sharp, emotional sob ripped from Clint's throat. He was confused. Natasha's face swam behind his eyes for a moment. A few more sobs came from his throat, but then he calmed himself.

Regaining his composure, Clint stood back up. He finished up his shower quickly and turned off the water. He reached for a towel as he stepped out and wrapped it tightly around himself. He left the bathroom and was met with a wall of sharp, cold air. He cringed but hurried to his room. He let the towel fall to the floor and crawled into his bed, pressing his hands against his eyes as he tried to reason with himself.

It wasn't that Clint was against homosexuals. He had met plenty of them in his life and never had a problem with them. However, maybe it was the fact that he'd never even considered homosexuality an option for him. He had been content with the girls he had dated; he had loved Natasha, hadn't he? He reflected on time spent with her, on their kisses and their sexual encounters. Had he really enjoyed that? He thought he had.

With a loud groan, Clint pushed all of the troublesome thoughts from his mind. He rolled onto his side and opened his eyes. He wasn't motivated to get out of his bed or to get dressed, but he knew he should. Slowly he kicked his blankets from his body. Goosebumps ran up his arms and legs as the chilly air met his naked, damp body again. He hurried to his dressed and pulled out some underwear, jeans, and a t-shirt.

After Clint had dressed he ambled out to his living room. There was a sofa, a television, and a window on one wall with the blinds drawn closed. It seemed desolate, and increasingly lonely. Sitting down on the sofa, Clint pulled a blanket over himself. He switched on his television and flipped through the channels. He watched the programs without really paying attention.

* * *

There were only so many things Clint could do to keep himself occupied, to keep the time going by. He had fallen in and out of sleep a few times already. He had received two more phone calls from Bruce, and one from Natasha, though he hadn't answered any. The sun was setting by the time he got up to make himself something to eat.

Clint opened a can of soup and dished it into a bowl, throwing it into the microwave. He stared in through the little window as the machine hummed for a few minutes. The sharp beep that notified Clint his soup was ready startled him. He grabbed a pot holder and pulled the bowl out, setting it on his small table and sitting down. He stirred the soup up, staring in at the noodles and vegetables apathetically. He took a bite and winced as it burnt his tongue. It didn't take him long to realize he wasn't in the mood to eat.

Clint reasoned with himself for about a half an hour; he paced around his kitchen, up and down his hallway. He finally stopped himself by his telephone for nearly the fifth time. This time he picked it up. His hand grasped the small, plastic machine tightly. He stared at the numbers, knowing who he wanted to call. His stomach had butterflies inside of it as he dialed the number. He wanted these feelings to go away, all of them. He closed his eyes as he pressed the 'send call' button. A series of beeps sounded from the phone and then a ring. Clint brought it to his ear.

Second ring.

Third ring.

_Hang up, Clint._

"Hello?"

Clint froze. He wasn't sure if he head been expecting anyone to answer.

"Clint?"

Clint crammed his eyes shut, trying to speak around the lump in his throat.

"Are you alright?"

"Y-yeah," Clint finally said, his voice trembling slightly. "Uh, so," Clint felt himself at a loss for words.

"So…?"

"Look, Bruce, can we uh, well, can we talk?"

* * *

**Author's note: I just want to let you all know I have the rest of the story planned out. There will be three more chapters after this one, and I'm really excited about them. I hope you all are as well. -E.**


	7. Chapter 7

A knock on the door brought Clint out of his daydream. He left his bathroom and looked at the clock in the hallway. Was it already five o'clock? It was. Clint bit his lip and hurried to the door, a towel draped over his shoulders. He wasn't ready for company, but he wasn't going to keep him waiting.

Pulling the door open, Clint put on a brave face. "Uh, hi, Bruce. I'm not really ready yet, but you can come in and… well, and whatever," he mumbled nervously.

Bruce stood in the doorway, a paper bag clutched in one hand. He was slightly dressed up compared to his usual attire. He had added a bow tie to his outfit, and he hoped it wasn't too fancy for Clint. He didn't want to Clint to get the wrong idea. He gave Clint a charming smile and spoke: "Yeah, sure. That sounds fine, Clint.

"Great," Clint said softly, holding the door open as Bruce walked in. "I'll be quick, I promise," he breathed, turning and hurrying down the hallway to his bedroom.

Bruce set his paper bag down on Clint's kitchen table and looked around. Not much was different from the last time he was here. He moved over to the living room, pulling the blinds open to let in the light of the setting sun. How could Clint live with the curtains drawn every hour of the day?

In his room, Clint had discarded the damp towel on his bed and was throwing on a t-shirt. Had he really answered the door without a shirt? His cheeks flushed red as he realized this and he hit his head softly on his dressed.

What was it Clint wanted from this? He had called Bruce the night before and after a while of him dodging questions and beating around the bush, he had finally asked Bruce if he wanted to come over the next night, which was tonight. Was this a date? Clint doubted it and his stomach dropped. He moved over to his bed and sat down for a moment, trying to gain some type of composure. After a few moments he sighed and left his room.

Bruce turned to face Clint when he heard his feet shuffling along the carpet behind him. He noticed right away how crestfallen Clint looked.

"Is something wrong, Clint?" Bruce asked, his brow knotting in concern.

Clint forced a smile and straightened out. "No, I'm just," he was trying to find an excuse, "I'm just pretty exhausted, still."

"Do you want me to come back another time?" Bruce asked.

"No, no. I need this."

Bruce swallowed hard, suddenly feeling a bit flustered. He brought a hand up to fumble with his bowtie, readjusting it. Clint noticed the fidgeting and turned away. His cheeks flushed. Pictures of Bruce swam in the back of his mind; the pictures were mostly from the dreams Clint had been having lately. He closed his eyes, trying to push any desire for Bruce from his mind.

"Clint… are you sure?"

Clint opened his eyes to see Bruce still looking concerned. He sighed and hunched up his shoulders. "I'm just hungry, is all," he mumbled as an excuse.

"Well, I've got a solution for that," Bruce said, offering a very charming smile before turning and heading to the table. He reached into the paper bag he had brought. Clint's curiosity peaked. He followed Bruce over to the table and peered in the bag.

"Food…?" Clint's brow knit. Why had Bruce brought food? Clint watched as Bruce pulled out a baguette, a box of noodles, some cheese, and a bottle of wine.

"Of course. I figured it would be a nice treat for you," Bruce said, his expression suddenly shy and a bit sheepish. "I can be a pretty decent cook," he added, turning to smile at Clint.

"You… you really shouldn't have," Clint said softly, looking down at his feet. He hadn't anticipated this. Again, pictures of Bruce half dressed found their way into his mind. His cheeks flushed again.

Bruce reached out as he noticed the blush, pressing his hand to Clint's forehead and stepping closer to him. Clint tensed immediately, and only grew even more tense when Bruce brought his other hand around to keep Clint from squirming away. "You're warm," Bruce murmured, keeping his gaze fixed on Clint. Clint feebly brought a hand up to push against Bruce's chest, but he found himself unable to actually push the man away. He was fixated, and so was Bruce.

Suddenly Bruce found himself drawn to Clint. He could barely control himself. His heart was hammering away in his chest, and he could also feel Clint's heartbeat. He let his hand move from Clint's forehead to his jaw. He cradled the man's jaw tenderly and leaned closer to him. Clint parted his lips as a soft gasp escaped him. Bruce was coming closer. His lips were about an inch from Clint's. The distant was growing smaller. Clint felt Bruce's breath on his lips.

A knock on Clint's door caused both of them to freeze. Clint felt Bruce's lips graze his very briefly before he jerked his head away. Bruce's hands fell to his sides, defeated. Clint hurried to his door, only to have it jerked open from the other side.

"Look, Clint, you haven't been answering anyone's phone calls since-" Natasha quit talking when she was the flustered Bruce lurking behind Clint. "What's going on?" she asked, her expression a mix of many emotions.

Scowling, Clint grabbed Natasha by her shoulder and lead her out into the hallway, pulling the door shut tightly behind him. Bruce stood with a slightly dejected air about himself. He stared at the closed door for a moment before turning to the table again. He might as well start cooking their dinner. He wondered if Clint would let him stay for dinner. What had he been thinking?

Out in the hallway, Clint was grappling for words, for an explanation. Natasha, however, knew exactly what to say.

"You and _him_? You and _Bruce Banner_?" Natasha's words stung Clint, even though he knew she didn't mean them to do so.

"Look, Nat. I don't know, alright? I just don't know," Clint groaned, bringing his hands up to rub at his temples. He was mixed up and confused, and even Natasha could tell.

"Are… are you trying to make me jealous, Clint? Please, tell me the truth."

Clint snapped his eyes open to glare at Natasha; this was the first time he had ever wanted to scream at her. "_No_," he seethed, his expression reflecting his anger thoroughly. "Nat, I can move on. You did."

"I know, Clint. I know. I just want to make sure you know what you're doing," Natasha said, her voice gentle.

"But I don't! I don't know what I'm doing," Clint exclaimed, raising his voice slightly. Natasha reached out to place a hand on his shoulder, attempting to calm him.

"Look, Clint. Bruce _really _likes you. I thought it was obvious. And you like him, don't you?"

Clint closed his eyes and tossed his head back, exasperated. "I don't know," he spat out between clenched teeth. He had never felt so confused in his life.

"It's alright, if you do, Natasha offered gently.

"I know it is," Clint snapped. He looked at her. "I am free to fall in love with whoever I want. I don't want you assuming I'm feeling guilty or ashamed or jealous. Bruce is a great guy, Nat."

"I know he is, Clint. I just… I don't know," Natasha said, her one voice taking on an exasperated air.

"I can't be hung up on you forever, Nat."

This sentence struck Natasha like a blow. It seemed to break something that had been holding them together. She realized inside that perhaps she had been more hung up on Clint than Clint had been on her. She put on her most graceful smile. "I'm happy you've found someone, Clint," she said softly. "Now don't leave him waiting."

Clint furrowed his brow as Natasha turned and started walking away. He watched her hips sway and found that for once he wasn't longing to hold her close to him. For a moment he feared he had maybe ruined their friendship, but he would later find he had only strengthened it. With a bit more confidence, Clint turned around and went back into his apartment, locking the door behind him.

Bruce turned from the stove as he heard the door open. His eyes were worried as he inspected Clint. He waited for Clint to tell him to leave. After a few moments of silence, however, Bruce relaxed a bit. All he could hear with the bubbling of the pot of water on the stove.

"I'm sorry about that," Clint said, sheepish. He ran a hand through his short hair nervously before moving to the kitchen.

"No, no. It's perfectly fine. However, we do have a bit of a dilemma," Bruce said. He was extremely relieved when Clint came near him.

"What?" Clint asked, his brow furrowing.

"Well, I forgot to bring any sauce," Bruce chuckled, shaking his head at his own absent mindedness.

Clint let out a laugh. He had assumed it was a more serious subject. After the humor of the moment had passed, however, Clint felt the room grow tense. Bruce was the one to break the silence.

"Look, Clint. I really need to talk to you about something."


	8. Chapter 8

Clint wasn't sure how to respond. He looked Bruce over, trying to judge if he was serious; from the tone of his voice and his expression Clint could tell he was very serious. His stomach churned as he turned away from Bruce. He brought his hands to his face, rubbing them across his temples and over his eyes. "Look Bruce, I really don't want-"

"Clint, you don't know what I have to say," Bruce said, cutting off Clint mid-sentence. Clint turned around, looking Bruce over again. He had a tense expression and his posture was stiff. Bruce swallowed. Had he upset Clint? He hadn't meant to, but he felt they really did need to talk. "I'm sorry, Clint, but I just," he sighed, "I just really think we should talk about some things…"

"Like what?" Clint demanded. He was starting to panic inside his head.

"Well," Bruce was already starting to regret bringing anything up, "What was so important you needed to talk to Natasha in private?" he finally asked, his expression soft and hopeful. Clint was contrasting him, his expression steely and his posture stiff.

"Nothing."

"_Clint_."

Clint whirled away from Bruce, exasperated and increasingly nervous. He leaned against the wall, staring down his dark hallway. Not a single picture decorated the walls. Clint was reminded of Bruce's cozy, warm townhouse. He covered his face with his hands.

"Clint," Bruce said again, this time softer. He stepped toward Clint, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. Clint shrugged it off, shying away from Bruce's touch. Bruce sighed. "Clint," he whispered, even softer than before. He tried again to reach out for Clint. He placed his hand gingerly on Clint's shoulder. This time, Clint didn't stir. "What's with you, Clint?"

"What's with me," Clint said, his voice somewhat hollow. It was more of a statement than a question. Bruce moved his hand over Clint's shoulder affectionately and slowly trailed down his arm. He managed to pull Clint's hands from his face.

"Yeah, what's with you?" Bruce repeated, his voice a comforting coo. Clint knotted his brow, trying to think of an explanation. Anything. An excuse. He couldn't, however, and he remained stiff and silent. Bruce pulled away. Clint could hear him move across the kitchen. "Well, the noodles are done," Bruce mumbled to himself. Clint slumped against the wall. He let himself slide down to his knees. A few minutes passed.

"Clint, please talk to me, _please_," Bruce said from his place in the kitchen. He was leaning against Clint's table, staring down at the man slumped on the floor. "I want to know about you; I want to know what's bothering you," he added, standing up straight and moving around the table toward Clint. Clint gave in.

"Bruce, there are these certain things in life that you just can't have. Okay? Some things just shouldn't happen, and there's plenty of reasons for things like that."

Bruce stared down at Clint. His chest was aching from sorrow. He could tell Clint was upset, and he felt a rejection in what Clint was saying. He yearned to lower himself next to Clint, to cradle him and whisper comforting, sweet nothings into his ear. But he couldn't do any of that.

"How about I finish cooking dinner, okay? You need to eat some real food, Clint," Bruce offered, trying to change the subject now that Clint had made his point. Clint looked up at Bruce with an exhausted expression.

"Yeah, sure. I guess I'm hungry," Clint mumbled, forcing his gaze from Bruce after a few moments. Bruce turned and went back into the kitchen, busying himself. Clint shakily stood up and went over to the table, sitting down with his shoulders slumped.

* * *

"Dinner was great, Bruce," Clint said after placing his plate on the counter near the sink. Bruce had managed to make the evening a bit better with his spectacular hand at cooking. Even the wine tasted better tonight than Clint had ever had before. But the wine was also causing Clint to be too much at ease. He felt as though his mind were blurred around the edges. But was it even the wine? He'd only had one glass.

"I'm glad you think so," Bruce said with a smile, pulling Clint from his thoughts. He wished there was more he could do for the man. Briefly he thought about the moment their lips had brushed. If he was so opposed, why hadn't he made Bruce leave then? Bruce tried to work over the situation in his mind.

Clint leaned against the counter, rubbing at his eyes. He faked a yawn, as well, trying to make himself seem tired. "I think now might be a good time to head home, Bruce. I'm wiped out," he mumbled drowsily after his fake yawn ended. Bruce looked Clint over. An expression of resolve came over the man.

"No."

Clint froze. No? Was Bruce refusing to leave? Shit. Clint felt his heart start to hammer. This wasn't what was supposed to happen. "What do you mean, no?"

"I mean exactly that, Clint: no. I'm not leaving. We have something, and I'll be damned if you try to tell me different."

Clint was baffled. He straightened out and turned toward Bruce. Panic was swimming in his eyes. "No, we don't. There's _nothing_ between us, Bruce. I'm not… I'm not-"

"Not what? Not gay?"

"No! Bruce," Clint was struggling to make his point, "just _leave._ Please, go home."

"No, Clint. I'm not convinced. If you want me to leave, by all means convince me. Scream it, force me out the door. Show me you really want me to leave," Bruce demanded. His stance was strong, sure of himself. Even with his own heart rate accelerating, there was no way Clint was going to get rid of him.

Clint lunged forward, slamming his hands against Bruce's chest. Bruce was shocked momentarily, but there was barely any force to the blow.

"Do you want me to leave?" Bruce asked.

"Yes! Yes, I want you to leave, Bruce!" Clint yelled. He threw his hands against Bruce again, but this time Bruce caught them firmly in his large hands.

"I don't believe you," Bruce whispered, leaning toward Clint and holding him firmly. Clint eyes were wide and wet around the edges.

"LEAVE!" Clint cried out, closing his eyes in an attempt to fight back tears. He had never been so conflicted. Didn't he want Bruce here?

Bruce let go of Clint for a moment, but he grabbed the man again shortly after. He placed one hand firmly on Clint's right hip before sliding it around to the small of his back. The other hand grabbed the side of Clint's neck firmly, pulling him toward Bruce.

Their lips crashed together passionately, hungrily, desperately. A soft whimper rumbled in Clint's throat as he tried to pull away, but his resolve broke almost instantaneously. Here was Bruce, the man he had dreamt of kissing, of touching, forcing Clint to kiss him. And it broke Clint's heart that Bruce had actually had to force Clint to kiss him.

Clint brought his arms up shakily toward Bruce. He ran his fingertips over the smooth fabric of his shirt before he wrapped his arms tightly about Bruce's neck. Bruce responded by pulling Clint as tightly as he could managed against his body. The two struggled in each others' arms for a few minutes before the kiss broke and Clint was gasping.

Bruce looked down at Clint with a hunger in his eyes. Clint returned the look, and no words we exchanged. They pulled at each other's clothes as they stumbled down the hallway toward Clint's room. Clint clawed at Bruce's bowtie and managed to snap a button off of his shirt. Bruce pulled at Clint's shirt and tossed it into a corner. The pair entered Clint's bedroom and Clint fell onto his bed with a muffled thump.

Dropping to his knees, Bruce undid Clint's pants. He tugged at them but needed a little help from Clint to get them off. After they were tossed aside, Bruce stood up and wedged himself between Clint's thighs. He leaned down, pressing soft kissed along Clint's jaw until he captured his lips in another hungry kiss. The pair fell down against the mattress and became a tangle of testosterone and limbs.

Only when Bruce reached down to pull at Clint's underwear did Clint falter. Bruce detected the hesitation and pulled back, looking down at Clint.

"Are you sure about this, Clint?"

Clint's eyelids fluttered. "No," he admitted softly, his body tensing. He knew he wanted this, but he didn't want it at this moment in time. Bruce looked over Clint's body with glassy eyes. "I'm sorry," Clint said, hoping it would help.

"Don't be. I can wait, Clint. I've… I've never felt this passionate about someone. It's as though I have this fever, and the only cure for this fever is being with you. Hell, Clint, I've gone crazy these past few days when you weren't around," Bruce explained. Clint's heart was hammering in his chest and his whole body felt warm. "I want to be with you, Clint. I want you, and only you."

Clint was at a loss about what he should say. He had never been with a man before. What if it wasn't what he wanted? But looking deep inside his own mind, Clint realized he really did want Bruce. A nagging thought at the back of his mind also made him realized Natasha hadn't entered his mind once since she had left.

"Good." Clint stated.

"Good?" Bruce breathed. He seemed relieved as he leaned down, pressing his mouth back against Clint's.

The pair continued to work their bodies together as they kissed and touched just about every inch of skin they could reach. Minutes passed, and then hours, and they still found themselves content to lay next to each other. The night ended for them after Clint managed to have an orgasm simply from the friction of Bruce's leg wedged between his.

Bruce kissed the top of Clint's head gently as Clint's breathing steadied into a slow rhythm. His arm was draped over Bruce's chest and he fell asleep in that position. Bruce brought an arm up to wrap around Clint's waist and he too fell asleep. The evening had gone better than eith_er of them could have hoped._


	9. Chapter 9

Clint woke up bleary-eyed and confused. He was face down against his pillows, and he could have sworn there was someone else in his bed before. He heaved himself up from the mattress, glancing around his small room. Nothing. Had there really been someone?

Yes. Bruce.

Clint crammed his eyes closed tightly as he remembered the night before and all of it's dream-like qualities. It hadn't really been a dream, had it? Clint opened his eyes and glanced around yet again. The only clothes on his floor were his own. He rolled over and stood up, walking over to the small mirror nailed next to his dressed. He inspected himself. He was stripped down to his boxers, and not only that, but he was also dotted with red splotches. He ran his fingers over a rather dark one on his neck and found it painless. His cheeks flushed as he realized Bruce had actually left love-bites on him.

Clint's sheepishness was suddenly replaced by anger as he realized Bruce had left him alone during the night. What had Bruce even been after? Was it sex, and when Clint wasn't ready to give that up, Bruce just left? Clint tried convincing himself it wouldn't be like Bruce to do something of the sort, but he still found himself angry. He turned away from the mirror and grabbed a gray t-shirt from the floor, pulling it over himself before leaving his room and crossing the hallway to the bathroom.

After brushing his teeth and shaving his stubble, Clint heard a soft humming. He was suddenly on edge as he opened the bathroom door and peered down the hallway. There was someone in the kitchen. Clint quietly made his way down to the end of the hallway only to bump into the table with his answering machine on it. It startled him more than the person in the kitchen, and Clint was preoccupied with putting the machine back on the table when said person spoke.

"Look who's awake."

Clint's head shot up. Standing in his kitchen was Bruce, dressed in the clothes he had worn the night before and wearing the apron that had been buried in Clint's closet. Clint was baffled. Hadn't Bruce abandoned him?

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Bruce observed, somewhat jokingly before turning back to the stove. Clint dared to move closer. Was he cooking? "I hope you like eggs and semi-burnt toast," Bruce mumbled sheepishly, only confirming what Clint had assumed.

"I thought you had left," Clint finally said, his voice tense. He stood against the small counter-top bar that separated the "dining room" from the actual kitchen.

"No, no. What, do you really want me to-" Bruce cut himself off when he glanced and saw Clint's expression. He seemed hurt. Bruce set down the pan and turned around completely. "I wouldn't do that," he said, almost shocked that Clint had thought he would.

The silence was tense for a few moments, until Bruce maneuvered around the counter. He pulled Clint tightly to his chest before pressing a warm, passionate kiss to his lips. Clint let it happen, practically melting in Bruce's arms. Slowly his hands made their way up Bruce's chest and around his neck, ignoring the fact he was wearing an apron.

"You're going to burn the eggs, too," Clint mumbled against Bruce's lips after the kiss continued for a few more moments. Bruce pulled back, grinning and pulling away. He returned to the stove, but Clint followed him. He managed to wedge himself between Bruce and the stove, wanting to stay in close contact with the man. He let his arms wrap back around Bruce's shoulders.

"Good morning," Clint whispered softly, kissing Bruce this time. Bruce returned the kiss momentarily before pulling away.

"Go butter the toast. You worry me, being this close to the stove," Bruce said, giving Clint a sly smile before motioning him away. Clint listened, pulling a tub of butter from his refrigerator and seeking out the charcoal-colored toast on the counter.

"I think it might need some jelly, too," Clint said, observing how burnt the toast really was. "Or just, you know, new toast," he added, glancing over at Bruce. Bruce chuckled.

"Whatever you want, little bird," Bruce said, starting to hum after doing so. Clint smiled as he noted the pet name and a warm feeling spread over him. Bruce hadn't left, and better yet, it seemed as though Bruce was going to stay.

There was truth in the fact Clint had only recently put out the fire of passion he had felt for Natasha, and it had left him emotionally and romantically weak, but even so, he managed to navigate his way through the wreckage and aftermath straight into the arms of someone who was willing to love him unconditionally, and that was really all Clint could have asked for.

In retrospect, the "fire of passion" he had felt for Natasha was but a feeble flame flickering in a breeze compared to his newly found passion for Bruce. It gave him faith and left him feeling warm and cared for, and in the end, he was happier with Bruce than he could have hoped to be with Natasha.

* * *

**Author's note: Well, that's it. This is the end to the rather long story I was prompted to do. I guess I really dragged out the prompt, looking back on it now, but it was so much fun to write. I hope the ending isn't a disappointment for anyone. It surely isn't the last Hulkeye story I'll ever write, I guarantee that much.**

**I've already got the idea for another Hulkeye story, actually. A little one-shot piece, which I'm going to title "Sing Louder, Little Bird". I need to feed the monster in my which is demanding some kinks and voyeurism. **

**I've also got a prompt for a short Christmas themed story with Steve/Tony, if anyone will be interested in reading that. Aside from my one-shot plans, however, I don't think I will be starting another multi-chapter story for awhile. It really took a lot out of me, but all the follows, favourites and reviews really helped keep me going. **

**-Much love, E.**


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